“You’re changing the subject,” says her mom, but she’s smiling a little, so she’s not too upset. She reaches out and hits play on the tape deck. Joseph’s music fills up the car again, the singer promising some unnamed person, in his thick-with-sorrow voice, that he will always love them.

8

The police come again but not to ask for help. It’s late evening this time. Outside it’s dark and cold and raining so hard Shelly can hear the water splashing against the house. The cars driving past on the street send huge arcs of water flying through the air.

When Grandma opens the door, Jenny is there, her uniform soggy around the edges like the ghost Shelly and Grandma brought home from the river. She runs her hands through her hair nervously. She glances over Grandma’s shoulder, at Shelly, but looks away, focusing on Grandma instead, like she’s pretending Shelly isn’t there.

“There was an accident,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Grandma knows what Jenny means right away. She freezes up in the doorway like someone hit pause. It takes Shelly a little longer.

What Jenny means is the car was so old it could only play tapes. She means the brakes needed replacing. She means the weather was bad and the world was dark. She means Shelly’s mother was tired and coming off a long shift. She means there was an accident and Shelly’s mom didn’t walk away from it.

Grandma comes unstuck gradually, moving slowly as her face crumples. She looks at Shelly—reaches for her—but Shelly can’t hear her.

A ringing in Shelly’s ears drowns out everything except the sound of her heartbeat, unsteady and too fast. She feels . . . distant. Like she’s underwater so she can’t see Grandma and Jenny clearly. She can’t concentrate on them talking about what happened and how it happened and what to do next. It feels like someone took an ice cream scoop and scooped Shelly out of her body, pulled the part of her that feels things away and set it aside for later.

She walks to her mother’s bedroom and sits on her bed. She’s there, but she’s not. She’s there, but it’s like she’s watching herself. She’s watching and she’s waiting. She waits and waits. She stays up all night and watches the sun rise through the window.

She waits, but her mother’s ghost doesn’t come.

AFTER

9

Not everyone who dies becomes a ghost. Most people just move on, but those people don’t know about ghosts like Shelly’s mom knew about ghosts. They didn’t grow up with ghosts clutching at their hair, with a mother who dealt with ghosts for a living. Those people don’t have Shelly waiting for them.